


blood, dirt & sucked sugar stick

by wreathed



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Closeted Character, Coming Untouched, Fantasizing, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, No Dialogue, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Repression, Sad Innuendo, Shame, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: With a rigid start, the Captain wakes in winter’s darkness — before zero six hundred hours — drenched in sweat, and finds himself face down on the bed and mildly inconvenienced.
Relationships: The Captain/Lieutenant Havers (Ghosts TV 2019)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 54





	blood, dirt & sucked sugar stick

As CO, the Captain had requisitioned on arrival a small, closet-like room close to his office for his personal quarters. He fears from the state of the sheets in the mornings that he twists and turns throughout the night, something he would let neither a subordinate nor a superior see. His defences lower a disgraceful amount in repose, even though he has been working hard for some time to muster appropriate improvements to his psychogenic fortifications.

He runs and lunges, knowing the importance of keeping his body in peak physical condition as an exemplary commissioned soldier — and should there be an arrival of invading forces — but he is never able to tire himself out enough to ward off the dreams that like to haunt him: memories curiously undulled by the passage of time of the mud and machine gun fire at Ypres; visions of the letters he had written from the front (sufficiently cheery so as to not give additional labour to the censoring officer) whirling numerous and out of reach; the faces and fates of the young men stationed elsewhere to which the letters were addressed.

They have him wrenched into consciousness with his heart racing, gasping as though he is completing his morning sprint in frosty weather. Now, waking up every morning and bringing himself back to the present is when he remembers anew that Havers is gone.

With a rigid start, the Captain wakes in winter’s darkness — before zero six hundred hours — drenched in sweat, and finds himself face down on the bed and mildly inconvenienced. Normally the sort of gentleman to spring upright and out of bed immediately upon waking in order to avoid any dilly-dallying or disloyal lines of thought, the Captain assumes it will go away in a moment and in time for reveille, meaning there is on this occasion good reason for him to be idle for a few minutes longer.

Much like the dreams, these internal rebellions keep happening, especially in the mornings, and this is despite them being given short shrift and no attention. Embarrassing and ungodly, especially at his age. A waste. Perhaps even unpatriotic! Typically he would simply sit and bally well think about what sort of things would await his men if they were to be captured by the enemy until it went away, although sometimes even thinking about that somehow sent things awry as well.

He is (he must be) as jealous of Lieutenant Havers at least as much as he misses him — that is, misses his expertise, not to mention his steady hand in a crisis. There he goes, giving Jerry what for in Cyrenaica, while the Captain is stuck here in this cold and crumbling house, far away from current enemy lines. Not that it is for him to question the entirely correct wisdom of his superiors, of course.

What if Havers successfully completes a series of feats of heroism and he becomes rapidly and deservedly promoted, perhaps as far as Major, or even higher? Havers may be younger than the Captain is, but that sort of promotion in the field during wartime was not unheard of, nor unfitting. If Havers ever were to return to Button House, he would have to call Havers ‘sir’! What a thought!

What a very strange thought.

The Captain’s mind goes to Havers telling him _at ease_ , of Havers giving orders and the Captain having to follow them. Of Havers reaching out to where the Captain’s regimental lapel pins have somehow been placed upside down, pulling the Captain forward by his shoulder belt and forcibly making a firm correction. And then, perhaps, Havers would be disappointed, and then the Captain would have to be disciplined for so egregiously breaking protocol.

All a ridiculous notion, of course. The Captain has never in his life sought out punishment, but rather been desperate to avoid it. And he would never put any part of his uniform on the wrong way around.

And Havers has received the assignment he wanted — why on earth would he ever return?

That strange feeling again. The Captain’s problem has not disappeared. How is he supposed to get his men all moral and upstanding if he can’t even get his own… head in order? Nor can he even prevent the single torturous downward movement his thighs have just made of their own accord, even though it isn’t time for his usual fifty press-ups until zero six forty-five.

He hasn’t even been thinking about… what’s the word? Women! That’s it. He hasn’t thought about a woman for months, but then apart from the handful of ATS girls there are assigned to Button House he’s hardly seen one for months either, so it makes complete sense that the subject hasn’t come up.

As a stern rebuke, the Captain forces his thoughts towards memories of the consequences of not falling into line: a rap across the knuckles with a ruler at Repton, or the unforgiving knock from a cricket bat courtesy of an older boy. The icy cold showers at Sandhurst, and the copious boot polishing, even if the former seemed nothing worth complaining about and the latter he had privately felt was enjoyably meditative, especially as it was conducted in strict silence. All are times he has felt the shame of deviating from correct protocol despite his best efforts, felt the black mark of not meeting the expectations of total conformity.

In his mind, Havers is telling him that he has done well, a comradely hand at his shoulder, and it is at that moment when his body evokes the final fate of an activated, deeply-buried land mine. The Captain grimaces at his final further shift against the bed and the horrid mess made to his nightclothes, then rises out of bed at last. As if listening from somewhere far away, he hears his knees crack.

Good lord.

Three lengthy clearings of his throat later, to make sure nothing unseemly remained within him — coagulated either in his throat or elsewhere — he eyes the fine mantel clock he has commandeered. Zero six hundred hours exactly. The morning bugle call sounds out. Time to turn his full attention to King and Country, just as it should be. Quite right. Yes. Indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. I'm on [tumblr](https://wreathedwith.tumblr.com/post/639144823417454592/blood-dirt-sucked-sugar-stick-wreathed).


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